by Scott Turow
I yelled twice for Bidwell. He turned out to have been thrown only to the vehicle floor, and he poked his head up, none the worse for wear. The jeep was still running, but Biddy looked it over and announced that because of the angle at which the vehicle was pitched, the differential wouldn't let the rear wheels turn. We swore at the thing as if it was a spavined horse, and tried to shoulder it back up to the road, well aware that another shell could land any instant.
A small convoy arrived behind us. The gold-bar lieutenant in charge jumped down from the truck to help, while he sent his sergeant ahead to try to figure how they were going to get past the crater in the road.
"Some hellacious fighting up ahead, Captain," he told me, when I explained where we were headed. "You picked the wrong day for legal work. Looks like Hitler's decided to make his last stand." He suggested we proceed west.
With the help of several of his troops, we got the jeep out of the ditch and fixed a flat on the right rear tire. The bazooka man put his weapon together and climbed onto one of the convoy's trucks, while Biddy and I headed in the direction of Neufchateau. Two of the canvas panels had torn and flapped as we drove, admitting a frigid breeze.
The sky was too low and bleak for aircraft and thus for bombs, but the pounding of heavy artillery was constant. About an hour later, we reached a crossroads, where the roads wagon-wheeled in all directions, beside signs for Aachen, Luxembourg, Dusseldorf, Neufchateau, and Reims. Two MPs stood at the center of the intersection, holding up every vehicle. When one reached us, he asked for our papers, which he examined for quite some time.
"If you're headed north, how come you're going west?
I told him about the shelling.
"Uh-huh," he said. "And how long you been stationed in Nancy?" When I'd answered that, he said, "What's the name of the main square there?"
I answered again, but pulled my ID card from my wallet. "See here." Biddy pointed out the word Indentification' but the MP stared as if we'd chosen another language.
"Sergeant, aren't you trying to make sure we're not German impostors?" I asked.
"Captain, all due respect, but I'm trying to make sure you're not a deserter."
"Deserter!" I was offended by the mere notion.
"Believe you me. Yes, sir. If you don't mind my saying so, Captain, those RTC boys," he said, referring to the replacement troops, "they don't know what the fuck to do when the shells start flying. Over in the 28th it seems like half the division has taken off for the rear. I found several hauling along dead bodies, making like they were looking for the medics. Another one told me he was a messenger, only he couldn't recall what he was going to tell anybody. And plenty waving their hankies and giving themselves up to the Krauts with barely a bullet fired. I hear close to ten thousand boys from the io6th surrendered to the Germans already. And not just enlisted men, not by any means. We got plenty of officers running from the bullets today, saying they were going to check with battalion."
"Are we talking about Americans?" I asked. "What in the hell is going on?"
"Heavy woods up north. Apparently the whole fucking SS Sixth Panzer was hidden in the trees. Von Rundstedt busted out of there with tanks and artillery, going through our lines like grease through a goose. The VIII Corps is getting a pretty good pasting right now I'm hearing a lot of crazy stuff. Some guys are claiming there are German tanks fifty miles west of here already. We had an antiaircraft battalion in retreat come through twenty minutes ago, and some of the enlisted guys were saying rumor is their orders are to fall all the way back and defend Paris. I'll tell you one thing, Captain, this fucking war ain't over yet.''
We turned north from there, but within half an hour, as the MP had warned, the road was choked with trucks and armored vehicles streaming south in full retreat. Many of these units were in complete disarray, separated from command and driving on only to find safety. We came upon an armored battalion stopped on the side of the road, completely out of gas. A young boy, a buck private, was sitting on a wheel well, crying with abandon, wailing and looking around as if he expected someone else to tell him how to stop. Every minute or so, another soldier gave him a few pats on the shoulder. A sergeant explained that the boy's best buddy had been blown to bits not three feet from him this morning.
Back in the jeep, Biddy said, "Sir, this here ain't no time to be arresting somebody, not in the middle of a battlefield."
"We have orders, Biddy." I really didn't know what else to do.
"I'm just saying, sir, gotta have a way to carry out your orders. Better to hold back here for a day or two till the smoke clears. Wherever the hell Martin was, Captain, he's gotta be on the move now, probably comin right this way."
He was making sense. We headed west again, where we were stopped twice more by MP patrols pushing back deserters. Near dark, we finally arrived in Neufchateau. It was a postcard of a town, with a crush of pretty, narrow buildings and steep streets of cobblestone, but there was an air of chaos. We reported to the rear-echelon headquarters for VIII Corps, in the columned Palais de Justice, where they were receiving grim reports from forward command in Bastogne. Men seemed to be rushing in and out of every office, shouting information that someone else immediately screamed was wrong. Several regiments had given up under white flags, while many other units were unaccounted for. Whenever I could get someone's brief attention, his eyes seemed to wander to the windows, expecting to see the German Panzers out there any second. Clerks were in the halls boxing papers, separating what needed to be carried along so the remainder could be burned at the inception of the retreat.
After a long wait in the signal office, I finally got a young corpsman to send a wired message to General Teedle, giving our current position and asking for further direction. Then I conducted a reconnaissance for a billet. I was directed to officers' quarters that had been set 'up two blocks away in the city hall. As I passed down the corridors, looking for an empty bunk, I encountered little knots of off-duty officers, huddled and often passing around whiskey as they talked in suppressed murmurs. No one seemed able to accept what was happening. There hadn't been a day since I'd landed in Europe that the Germans had made progress across a broad front. A fellow who claimed to have seen the latest maps said we'd been suckered too far east, that the Nazis were about to split the Twelfth Army group, dividing the First Army from the Third, and the Ninth from the other two, with pincer actions to follow on the northern and southern flanks. No one knew the limits of today's German advance, but it was clear they had the upper hand, and several of these officers remarked about earlier reports of Nazi movements that General Bradley had ignored. Every face reflected the same thoughts: We were not going home soon. We were not going to win the war by Christmas, or New Year's, or even Valentine's Day. When I bedded down, I finally asked myself the question that nobody would utter: Were we going to win the war at all?
We were, I thought then. We had to. We had to win this war. I would give my life in order to stop Hitler. And I knew, despite whatever panic gripped the replacement troops who'd deserted on the front, that most of the seasoned officers sleeping in this building felt the same way. I turned off the light and realized only then that I'd forgotten to eat. There was a K ration in my pack, but I was too tired and disappointed to bother.
Light across my eyes woke me a few hours later. My first thought was another explosion, and as I gathered myself I couldn't understand how I had missed the sound. Instead, I found the young corporal from the Signal Corps who'd taken my message to Teedle holding the flashlight against his face so I could recognize him. My watch said z:Io a. M. He whispered to avoid waking the other five officers snoring around me in the old office, and led me into the hall, still in my briefs.
"Captain, this signal just came through, sir, labeled 'Immediate Attention." I could see from the boy's face he had read the telegram in the envelope and thought immediate attention was warranted. It was from Teedle, and had arrived in code, the boy said, requiring deciphering by the cryptographers.
<
br /> Classified Information/Top Secret/Destroy After Reading OSS states man you seek Soviet spy STOP Arrest top priority STOP Further instruction by radio 0600 STOP
Chapter 15.
JUMP
Teedle never got through on December 17. Many of the Allied communications centers around Saint-Vith had been cut off by the Germans. Although we were south of there, the remaining lines and relays were dedicated to signal traffic more important than the fate of one man, even a spy, and I spent approximately forty hours on a bench in the VIII Corps signal office, waiting to hear from the General.
In Neufchateau, like many other places, the Signal Corps had established its headquarters in the dusty offices of the PTT--Poster, Telegrapher et Telephones--which was housed in a narrow pinkish building on a corner. Topped by a strange iron cupola, it looked as if it were wearing a helmet.
From my seat inside, I could watch the young women, with their bright lipstick and the sleek hairdos required to fit under their headsets, plugging and unplugging the lines in the tall switchboards. American enlisted men strolled back and forth to keep an eye on them, just as the Germans had been doing a few months ago. Every now and then, civilians would enter to mail a letter or package, which the dour clerks accepted with no assurance that the item would ever get through.
The one compensation in my wait was that this was probably the most informative location in Neufchateau. I asked no questions, but overhearing the messengers and aides who rushed up the stairs made it possible to piece . Things together. The news was almost completely dismal. Sepp Dietrich's 6th. Panzers were rolling steadily in our direction, overrunning the thinly manned VIII Corps positions. Nor was it clear yet if any force could come to their aid, since the 5th Panzer Division was advancing south to hold off Patton.
Listening from my outpost on the bench, it was difficult not to admire the Nazi strategy, however reluctantly. Given the salient Dietrich was cutting, Runstedt's plan seemed aimed at severing the American forces, then crossing the Meuse and driving on toward Antwerp. If the Nazis succeeded, the Allied troops in Holland and northern Belgium would be cut off entirely, without avenue for retreat.
Dunkirk would look like a minor setback by comparison. With a third of the Allied forces held hostage, Hitler might be in position to negotiate an armistice. Or, if his madness prevailed, he could destroy them and then turn south, with other forces roaring out of Germany in one last effort to reconquer western Europe. The betting in the signal office was that, insane or not, Hitler would make peace, if only to give himself time to rebuild his military. On the bench, I thought repeatedly about Martin's predictions of war and more war. It was hard to believe a victory that had seemed inevitable could be imperiled in only days. Every few minutes the same simple resolve lit up in me like a flashing sign, as it had since I arrived here. We had to win this war. I had to help.
Now and then, in mild desperation, I would cross the street to the rear headquarters in the Palais de Justice, a vast columned building of orange stone, to see if my orders had been misdirected there. Biddy also visited on occasion, and we walked in circles up and down Neufchateau's tiny sloping streets, although the cobbles proved icy and treacherous on the steeper grades. It snowed both days, heavy flakes descending from a sky so low it seemed only a few feet over our heads. Hitler had either planned well or been lucky, since the cloud cover made it impossible for us to put planes in the air, unless they wanted to fly right over the barrels of the German antiaircraft guns.
I hesitated at first to share Teedle's highly classified message with Biddy, but decided I had to tell him, so he would understand whatever happened next.
"A spy!" I was ready for Biddy to say he'd always had suspicions about Martin, but he seemed to have the same difficulties I had in accommodating himself to the idea. "Cap, how in the world's that make any sense after what we seen?" I'd pondered that and one of the most disconcerting thoughts to invade me in the last two days was that the operation at La Saline Royale, which we'd so proudly joined, had been undertaken in reality to hinder the U. S. Army for the benefit of the Soviets. Despite Patton's outrage about the timing of the explosions, I couldn't quite make the notion add up, but then again, I realized, that was how spies succeeded, by making themselves appear to be patriots. OSS was bound to have had reasons for its conclusion.
At 4:00 a. M. on December 19, the same corporal, Lightenall, shook me awake on the bench where I'd been sleeping. Teedle had gotten through, once more using the encrypted teletype. I sat down in front of the keyboard myself. I'd had time to learn how to use the machine while I waited.
"Confirm receipt of my signal of 12/16/44." I did.
"Not even I thought that," Teedle continued. "London insists there is evidence." Without fears of interception, the General proved expansive. I imagined him after a day of battle, his canteen in hand while he shouted at the teletype operator and, in the midst of another sleepless night, diverted himself with one more duel with me. The dialogue was stranger than ever because of the eerie interval before his response emerged with a sudden violent clatter.
In a gauged way, I asked what had been on my mind, whether the operation we'd taken part in at La Saline Royale was somehow in service of Martin's new allegiance.
"No idea. London still talking riddles. Seems our man not working against good guys in current game. Instead, getting ready for next one, moving ahead so he can inform red team re our team's movements, also try to slow them. If our team, red team don't come to blows, red team gets bigger piece of what's been taken when this game ends. Following?"
"Roger."
"London desperate for arrest, but per usual won't put in writing. Prefer not to explain to 535 fans in D. C. how star began playing for other team. Continue proceeding on my order. Our man still believed in VIII Corps sector. Contact General Middleton to make arrest."
I explained the problems with that directive. By now, Middleton had decided to abandon Bastogne as a forward HQ. His artillery, six or seven battalions of 155mm guns and eight-inch howitzers, had already begun a staged withdrawal, but none of them had been able to occupy their prepared rearward positions because the Panzer elements were upon them so quickly. They were basically on the run back here. A faster-moving Airborne Division, the mist, was going to take over and was trucking up from Reims. I told the General it was chancy for any communication to get through. More important, there were legal issues. As I had discussed with Colonel Maples, only someone under Teedle's direct command could arrest Martin. Teedle reacted as I expected.
"Goddamn Army's been fucked up since they put Washington on a horse."
"Rules, General. We would have to free him."
There was a long wait for an answer. I was sure Teedle was contemplating how he would explain it to both the OSS and Patton, when Martin waltzed off through a legal loophole.
Finally Teedle wrote, "You volunteering to go?"
My fingers faltered on the keys. But I understood the logic. Bidwell and I were the nearest soldiers for 15o miles who were even arguably under Teedle's command. I couldn't imagine how two men in a jeep were supposed to move on terrain under assault by Panzer forces, but what I'd been thinking for three days remained close to my heart. I would do what I had to to win this war.
I wrote, "Yes, sir."
"Good," he fired back in a moment.
"Sir, will need better information on our man's whereabouts. Unlikely still at Houffalize." Biddy had told me an astounding story, which he swore he'd heard from the MPs who'd been at Houffalize on December 17. American and German military police had stood back to back at an intersection in the town directing traffic, both sides too busy and too lightly armed to bother battling one another. The Americans pointed their forces toward retreat, while the Germans waved on the reconnaissance and mine-clearing crews that were making way for the Panzers only a few miles behind them. By now, Houffalize had fallen.
"London already contacted Supreme Headquarters, which understands utmost priority. Will seek
their assistance. Stand by for further orders.
I thought we were done, but a second later the keys flew again.
"How bad up there?"
"Fine here," I typed. "Hell on wheels a few miles forward."
"Tell them, hold on. Cavalry's coming. Will see you at the Siegfried line. Expect that SOB in chains. Out."
It took two more days before further orders came by cable.
Confirmed officer you seek commanding battalion NW of Bastogne STOP Proceed RAF airstrip Virton for transport to make arrest STOP
Late in the day on December 21, Biddy and I drove due south. Snow so solid that it looked like someone emptying a box of baking powder had been coming down all night, letting up only with the arrival of a cold front that felt just like the Canadian Express that bore down on Kindle County in the worst of winter.
The so-called airstrip at Virton proved to be no more than a wide dirt path recently bulldozed through a snowy field, but we found the small ground crew, mostly flight mechanics, expecting us. There were no hangars, because it would have been mad to house airplanes this far east in the face of the offensive, but the Brits had been landing in the dark here for a few days, hauling supplies cadged from Montgomery's forces, which were then trucked to our troops. Our soldiers, once expected to slice through the Germans in no time, were now short of everything, except, ironically, fuel, which had been stockpiled for their lightning advance.